The morning light streamed in through the tall, narrow stone window. In the guest chamber of the Steward's residence in the Sixth Circle, Serine quietly opened her eyes. White stone walls, a deep blue canopy. She hadn't noticed it the night before, but the sweet scent of Rohan's wildflowers drifted in from the garden. *(An unfamiliar bed, but I slept well.)* She was no longer in her traveling clothes. She slipped her arms into the linen nightgown that had been prepared for her and washed her face with water from the washstand. The cold sensation slowly washed away the lingering echoes of her reunion with the King the night before. She loosened her dark brown hair, which reached down to her waist, and slowly drew a comb through it. Usually she bound it in a single braid, but today she would be walking through the citadel. Perhaps she should put it up. She moved her hands with more care than usual. Her own face reflected in the mirror. Three thin, pale white scars running from her left temple to her cheekbone. The mark of an orc arrow that had grazed her. *(Three years already, since that day.)* The War of the Ring had ended. Sauron the Dark Lord had fallen. Her role as a Ranger of the North had ended too. Aragorn became King, and Arwen the Elf became Queen. Everything had changed. But these scars alone remained unchanged. Serine gently traced them with her fingertips. Just then, there was a discreet knock at the door. "[gentle]Good morning, Lady Serine." The one who entered was a young maid, perhaps around twenty years of age. A deep blue dress with a white apron. She was the girl who had shown Serine to this room the night before. "[gentle]I have a message from the Lady. She says she is occupied with morning affairs of state and cannot get away, but she would like to meet you in the armory this afternoon." "The armory?" "[gentle]Yes. It is an old armory in the Seventh Circle, adjacent to the White Tower. The Lady says there is something there she very much wishes you to see." Serine gave a small nod. Éowyn. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan. The legendary warrior woman who had slain the Witch-king of Angmar. And now, the wife of Faramir, Steward of Gondor. *(A fellow woman warrior.)* That thought had lingered in a corner of her mind since the night before. Éowyn had cast aside battle and chosen the path of healing. She herself had been unable to do that. "[serious]Understood. Tell her I will be there." After the maid withdrew, Serine donned a deep blue cloak and girded her longsword at her hip. Mornings in the White City always began with the sound of hammers. When Serine passed through the marketplace of the First Circle, the shouts of craftsmen busy with the reconstruction echoed around her. Men rebuilding collapsed stone walls, others removing charred timber frames. With the wedding approaching, garlands of flowers adorned the streets, and smiles lit the faces of the people. "[excited]Did you hear? It's King Elessar's wedding, they say!" "[laughing]Aye, but more than that, Lady Éowyn! The tale of how she struck down the Witch-king on the Pelennor Fields—it sends a shiver through me no matter how many times I hear it." "[gentle]And now she's Lord Faramir's wife. From warrior to the Steward's lady. Amazing, isn't it." Listening to their words at her back, Serine climbed the stairs, higher and higher. *(Éowyn is a legendary hero.)* Unlike someone like herself, who had fought unseen in the shadows. Her name was known to all the people, her deeds would be told for all eternity. *(And compared to that, I am…)* As a Ranger of the North, she had survived countless battles. But few knew of it. And even if they did, in this present time of peace, she was nothing more than a "woman who smells of battle." A small, stinging pain pricked deep in her chest. *(Am I… jealous?)* Realizing her own emotion, Serine let out a small breath. By the time she reached the Seventh Circle, the sun had already risen high. The old armory standing beside the White Tower was hushed and silent. Serine showed her silver star brooch to the warden and stepped inside. The cool air of stone. Battle-worn arms and armor hung upon the walls, and at the center stood a pedestal of ebony. And there, laid to rest upon it— A single sword, shattered halfway down its length. The blade was broken from the root, exposed in a pitiful state. Yet its steel seemed etched with the memory of countless battles, imposing a heavy silence upon any who beheld it. *(This is… Éowyn's sword.)* The legendary blade that had struck down the Witch-king of Angmar on the Pelennor Fields. Serine gazed at the sword without a word. A broken blade. Countless small nicks telling the tale of battle's ferocity. The blade, which must once have shone with a sharp light, was now nothing more than a lump of iron. *(Just like me.)* Unable to find any reason for being except on the battlefield. Once the fighting was over, nothing more than a "thing of no use." The shattered sword, even as it was displayed, was kept deep within the armory. In the people's memory, it was a hero's proof, but in truth, it could no longer cut anything. *(I, too… can no longer…)* Serine let out a small breath. It was then. "[gentle]That sword can no longer cut anyone." A quiet voice came from behind her. When Serine turned around, there stood— A woman clad in a deep blue gown embroidered with white silver, her sun-melted gold hair bound back in a single tail. Eyes of a fierce and clear blue-grey, like the northern seas. Those eyes were looking straight at Serine. It was Éowyn. "[gentle]But that sword is also my pride." Éowyn walked quietly closer and stood before the pedestal. About two meters of distance from Serine. A distance befitting two people meeting for the first time, not yet close. "[gentle]You are Serine of the North." "…Yes." Serine gave a small nod. Éowyn's eyes studied Serine's face intently. Her gaze stopped for just a moment on the scar on her left cheek. "[gentle]That wound… was it an orc?" "An arrow grazed me. Three years ago." "[sad]I see." Éowyn murmured briefly and looked down at her own left hand. Countless small scars remained on her fingers. "[gentle]I, too, suffered many wounds on the Pelennor Fields. When I struck down the Witch-king, this hand did not tremble, but I had gripped my sword so hard that my fingers would no longer move." Saying this, Éowyn unconsciously clenched her left hand. Gripping empty space, a habit from the days when she had once held a sword. Serine's eyes were captivated by that gesture. *(This person is still a warrior, too.)* A dignified figure as the Steward's wife. But within her dwelled that honed stillness possessed only by those who had staked life and death on the battlefield. "[gentle]You, too, are a woman who fights." A faint empathy seeped into Éowyn's voice. "[serious]…I have only fought. That is all." "[gentle]Yes. That alone is enough." Something wordless flowed between the two of them. Something like a tremor in the air, understood only by those who had staked life and death on the battlefield. Serine felt it, and sensed a slow warmth spreading deep in her chest. *(This person… might understand.)* A brief hope flickered through her heart. But that atmosphere did not last long. "[gentle]Will you tell me of your origins?" Éowyn's voice grew slightly stiff. "[serious]I am a survivor of the Dúnedain of the North. For many years, I served King Elessar as a Ranger." The moment she heard those words— A faint shadow flickered through Éowyn's blue-grey eyes. It was only for an instant. But Serine's sharp powers of observation did not miss it. *(Something just changed.)* Éowyn's lips still held a smile. But something behind it had frozen, ever so slightly. "[gentle]I see… King Elessar." Éowyn murmured this and lowered her gaze a little. Serine did not know. That Éowyn, too, had once secretly held feelings for Aragorn. And the past in which those feelings had never been requited. A woman warrior who had served the same King. One who had fought for long years at Aragorn's side. Within Éowyn's heart, the budding of an unspoken wariness and jealousy pierced her like a small thorn. "[serious]The King, now, is already…" Serine tried to say something, but Éowyn raised a hand lightly and cut her off. "[gentle]I know. About Lady Arwen." Éowyn's voice was calm, but Serine sensed something else beneath it. "[gentle]Now, as the Steward's wife, I am engaged in reconstruction aid and visiting the wounded and sick. My past as a warrior, and my present position… to be honest, there are many things I am still not accustomed to." As if changing the subject, Éowyn began to speak of her duties as the Steward's wife. The settlement plans for Ithilien, the houses of healing for the war-wounded. But at the edges of her words, something unspoken seemed to linger. Serine listened in silence. And then, when Éowyn's words suddenly faltered— "[sad]…My husband… is not here." Éowyn murmured it suddenly, as if to herself. "[sad]Faramir is away now, on an inspection of Ithilien. And even when he returns, he is… always captive to something. In the deepest place of his heart, there is a darkness I can never touch." Éowyn's voice trembled faintly. "[sad]He loves me. I know that. But… but in the depths of his heart, there is a place he will never let me enter. When I think of that, I feel so…" Her words broke off. Serine felt as if those words had pierced her through the chest. *(Just like me.)* Feelings that had never reached Aragorn. A pain she had sealed away deep in her heart for years, and years. "[gentle]…I understand that feeling." The words slipped from Serine's mouth naturally. "[sad]I… I wanted to touch someone's heart. But that person was always far away, and never once looked at me. When I learned that he would be bound to someone else, I… I…" Her voice caught. Éowyn looked up. Her blue-grey eyes wavered with surprise and empathy. "[sad]You, too…" Their gazes intersected. That honed stillness possessed only by those who had staked life and death on the battlefield. And behind it, the pain of unrequited feelings. *(This person, too, dwells in the same loneliness.)* Serine felt a piercing resonance with this person she had met for the first time. However— Éowyn immediately realized she had exposed her weakness. "[cold]…Forgive me. I should not have spoken of such things to a guest I have only just met." Éowyn's expression hardened. It was no longer the face that had shown a glimpse of empathy and vulnerability, but the face that had put back on the mask of social courtesy as the Steward's wife. "[gentle]Would you join me for lunch at the Steward's residence? I believe a maid will be coming to fetch you shortly." Her voice was polite, but there was a clear distance behind it. "[serious]…Understood." Serine nodded curtly. With a small bow, Éowyn left the armory alone, without her maid. A cold silence returned to the armory. Alone once more, Serine gazed again at the shattered sword. *(Éowyn's existence is—)* Not merely a comrade-in-arms or a kindred spirit. She was a mirror reflecting her own unrequited feelings, and perhaps the only person with whom she could share the wounds of her heart. But, at the same time— *(A potential rival in love, concerning the man called Faramir.)* That intuition pierced her deep in the chest like a small thorn. Éowyn's husband carried a darkness in the depths of his heart that he showed not even to his wife. And Éowyn was unconsciously searching for someone who could touch that darkness. *(Could I become that person?)* Serine considered it, and shook her head slightly. *(I don't know. But…)* Her relationship with Éowyn would not end as mere kindred spirits. Only that premonition remained, sharp in her chest, within the cold stone walls. Evening— Éowy